Hallowed Be Thy Name
by siltstone
Summary: Occasionally he found himself wondering whether he despised the heretics more for their trespasses, or for forcing an ancient and elegant order to such desperate measures." The workings of the Magisterium.


**Disclaimer:** His Dark Materials and the concept of daemons shown within it belong to Philip Pullman. All original characters belong to me.

A/N: I myself am Christian, so please don't read this as an anti-religion piece. If you want you can pretend I'm being clever and read it as a social commentary on corruption within organised religion, but mostly I just want to play with the Magisterium ;)

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The shrieks were growing louder, with any words that might have been spoken now lost within garbled incoherency that expressed desperation and pain, but little more. One could assume it proved the method was satisfactory, but the desired outcome was not wild cries; either they were reaching the limits of what the man could undertake, or further encouragement was required to tease forth those last few words they needed to hear.

From his position in the corner, Simon Blance flicked pale eyes sideways. Father Peterson's own gaze was fixed firmly upon the scene in front of them, his expression almost serene. Only the mongoose-daemon below him, prowling in a restless motion around and back and through his ankles, betrayed the source of the tense anticipation that lingered in the air. There was a delicate pause in which some sort of conclusion was reached, for he gave a curt nod to the stone-faced Imperial soldiers. It was the only signal they needed, and the coarse grind of metal mingled with the intensifying wails as the cages once again moved to part further from each other.

This movement would have been inconsequential were it not for the occupants of the cages. One housed their current guest, formerly a theological researcher at Gabriel's College, now held (under suspicion of aiding and abetting heretics) within the layered walls of the College of St Jerome in Geneva, well known for its supreme architecture, and for long remaining the base of operations for the Consistorial Court of Discipline.

In the other cage hooves beat helplessly against unmoving bars as the small deer-daemon was slowly pulled away from her human.

It was brutal, Simon mused. There was no denying that facet of it. And neither could he deny that it was unfortunate that they had to be reduced to these unsubtle measures, these blunt ferocities. Occasionally he found himself wondering whether he despised the heretics more for their trespasses, or for forcing an ancient and elegant order to such desperate measures. Against the crook of his neck he felt Quaysha bristle and exhale sharply in agreement as the cries stepped up yet another notch - the man should have turned his career towards the performing arts instead, for he certainly had impressive pitch.

"_Please!_"

Immediately Peterson held up a hand, his daemon whirling around to stand in a frozen statue of bared teeth and glittering eyes. The motion halted, though the weak scrabbling at the bars did not.

"Do you confess?"

"Please..."

It was words again, but in their tortured begging they remained useless. Simon fought down the urge to sigh and shift restlessly; it would not be becoming, even if he had been standing here an hour already. He had stood silent through the curses and the defiance, the harsh pants and struggled stoicism, and now the screams. While no stranger to patience - as a censor, it was his very job to stand and observe - he had tired of this particular scene some time ago.

"Not long now," Quaysha whispered in his ear, and he glanced at her in slight surprise. He personally thought that the man was likely to last longer still.

"Do you confess?" Peterson himself was running out of patience, and when only ragged pants met his question, he looked towards the guards again.

From the depths of whatever agony the man was going through, he recognised the gesture, and in an explosive burst of movement that made Simon take a reflexive step backwards, he threw himself against the bars, pressing himself against them as though he would squeeze through.

"I confess!" The words cracked as they left his throat, but they were clear. Simon could feel Quaysha's smugness practically emanating from her small furred body.

"I confess." He'd dropped to his knees now, still clinging to the cage with hooked fingers. The deer-daemon cried out from where she was, a broken, sobbing sound.

"I _confess_."

The process was expected to go more quickly from this point, but there were still certain procedures to be observed. For the most part Simon tuned it out, his interest having faded too long ago to be rekindled now. He was intended to be little more than a witness in any case, another voice to confirm that the heretic confessed, as though the shaky signature the man would be required to write was not enough. The cages remained pulled apart during the reading of the document, to make sure it was remembered what was at stake - his very soul, as it were, in more ways than one.

Simon was drawn from his thoughts by the quiet click of the door as it closed behind someone, and he turned his body on just enough of an angle to see who had entered so silently, the lanky form of their daemon at their heels. Ah, a visitor from one of the other orders on tour to see the workings of the Court, if he remembered correctly – Father Pascoe?

_Roscoe_, Quaysha corrected him, and he hummed a soundless thanks.

"Good afternoon," the man murmured, and Simon nodded his own greeting. Spectacled eyes observed the scene with little more than curiosity, an emotion at odds with the other running rife in the room. "I take it the proceedings are going well?"

Simon could feel his daemon moving, small claws tugging gently against the weave of his sleeve as she made her way down his arm, dropping lightly to the floor once she was able to do so without harm in order to turn her nose towards the serval-daemon. Anyone not particularly well-informed on the subject of lesser known animals (and perhaps even some who were) would no doubt label her form to be some sort of rat. Indeed, it was similar to a rodent in size and shape. Closer inspection, however, proved there were significant differences; a stockier body, sharper muzzle, pointed ears, and a furred tail that melted from body-fur brown to deepest black. It was a form designed to disarm and mislead, for few would guess that something so small and gentle in appearance could in fact be a swift and deadly predator, often preying on those same rodents it resembled. In its native land, they called the animal _mulgara_.

As it was, Quaysha reared up on her hind legs, stretching to her full height of scarcely three inches or so, and inspected the serval with far less fear than any creature so small had the right to offer to another so large. Fine whiskers twitched, barely ruffling the air.

"Indeed. Father Peterson is simply concluding business," Simon replied in an undertone that only just penetrated the triumphant priest's steady drone. Business seemed such a bland term for the work they did within these walls, under these clean anbaric lights. Even as he spoke, the litany wound to its final climax, and Peterson approached the trembling theologian with paper and pen.

"E-Elasiel?"

"Once you sign."

And he would; he would sign his life and his passion away, for there was nothing like a threat to one's soul to make one rethink priorities. A simple scrawl, and salvation would be upon him. A simple scrawl, and another heretic would cease to pluck at already unstable strings.

Simon had no wish to see the undoubtedly tear-stricken relief, and so gestured at the door, politeness on his features as he looked to Roscoe. "And I believe that is the conclusion." The few instructions he had received regarding Father Roscoe had been simple, and involved making the man as comfortable as possible. Though he did not particularly desire company at this moment, Simon was aware it would be remiss of him to let the opportunity pass. "Would you care to join me? I have need of refreshment."

Roscoe gave a small bow. "That sounds most appealing. Thank you."

The serval-daemon arched its spotted back against its human's legs, mouth curling in what was almost a smile.


End file.
